Chapter 7: Where the Sun shines

"Have you seen my—"

"Coffee table."

"Thanks. And where did I put the—"

"Mantelpiece."

"Oh, right. Thank you," John said quickly picking up the house keys and shoving them inside his jacket's pocket. "Are you sure you're not going to need me today?"

"I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered, typing away on John's laptop.

"Don't forget to log out afterwards," the doctor turned and entered the kitchen. "Blimey! That's hot!" he said dropping the toast and blowing some air to his hand.

It was John's first day at the surgery after a three week absence, and he was running late. Sarah wouldn't like it. She wouldn't like it at all. And considering the terms of their break up, it was highly improbable that she would forgive his delay.

John quickly coated the toast with a big amount of his favourite strawberry jam, and put it in his mouth. Then, he returned to the sitting room, picked up his case and made way to the door.

"Later," he shot over his shoulder, before feeling the presence of Sherlock behind him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm coming with you," the detective said shortly. "I need to go meet Dimmock at the Yard. I'm sure you don't mind sharing a cab," he concluded with a smile.

John shrugged and rushed down the stairs, followed by Sherlock and his long coat. God, he loved that coat. Oh, focus you damn idiot. John opened the door and looked for a taxi, biting on his toast again. He hated to eat in a rush, but he didn't want to test Sarah's patience. A minute later both of them were inside the cab. Blessed be Sherlock and his cab magnet super powers, John thought, finishing his breakfast.

"Uh, John," the detective said sheepishly, looking intently at John's features.

"What?"

"You have... a bit... there..." Sherlock pointed at his own lips.

"Oh, jam?" the doctor asked, trying to lick it away. "Is it gone?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No it's still there," he pointed at his mouth again.

John tried to lick it again. "Oh dammit. Sherlock, I can't see it!"

Sherlock stripped one of his gloved hands and reached John's face. He brushed a long, cold, pale finger in the corner of John's lip and wiped the remains of the jam away.

"There..." Sherlock whispered.

John noticed the flushed tone in Sherlock's features and the way he was looking at him. God he was so close he was able to feel the other man's warmth. And, was it him, or they were getting closer? No it wasn't illusion. They were definitely getting closer to each other. John was absolutely lost in that crystal blue gaze, it was like he was hypnotized. Even Sherlock's scent seemed to be pulling him in.

"Ahem... Here we are," the cabbie called, breaking the magic link that had formed between the two colleagues.

"Right, thanks," John said hastily, opening the cab door. "Alright, uh... see you later, then."

"Yes. Have a nice day," Sherlock said awkwardly.

John nodded and quickly made his way to the surgery. Sherlock leaned towards the window and observed him as he disappeared through the glass doors.

"Where to, now?" the cabbie asked again.

"Back to Baker Street," Sherlock said smiling. He looked curiously at the bit of jam still in his finger, and without a second thought, he travelled his hand to his lips, licking the strawberry flavoured component. My John knows what's good. I wonder if this is how John's lips taste like...

...

"Morning Miss Campbell," John said with a wide smile.

"Oh, hello Doctor Watson," the nurse responded. "How have you been? Are you all better now?"

"Oh yes. Ready to come back," he brushed a hand in her arm in a friendly way and winked. "See you in a minute."

As he walked down the corridor, John had the slight sensation the Miss Campbell was surprised to see him there. What? Did she, by any chance, think that he was going to be sick forever? He was coming back eventually. Of course, he was not counting on a three week absence, but still...

He opened the door to his office and stood still at the sight of a familiar face. The bright red curls of the woman in front of him seemed to burn at the direct light of the morning sun. He gaped before being able to snap out of the initial shock.

"Evelyn! Hello. I wasn't expecting to see you in here," he managed to say. "Let me just dress my robe. I'll see you in a tick."

Evelyn Harper looked up from the papers she was focusing on and turned her attention to John. "Doctor Watson. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. My first patient of the day! How are you? Aunt Martha said you've been ill. What brings you here?"

John turned to her with a very confused expression. What was she babbling about? She wasn't making any sense at all. He took a second look and saw she was wearing a white robe just like the one he wears when working.

"You are a doctor," said John, stating the obvious. Sherlock would've laughed at his slow perception skills. "Did I enter the wrong office?" he looked around looking for something unusual or out of place. He was almost sure he was in the right place.

"You're not here for a consult?" Evelyn asked. "What are you doing here, then?"

"I work here," he said opening the door to confirm that it was, in fact, his office. "So, you're enjoying London so far?"

"Oh God," she breathed.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad. I wouldn't live anywhere else. You'll get used to it," his eyes were still checking the room around him. Something wasn't right.

"Doctor John H. Watson. Of course," Evelyn got up and crossed the room towards him. "They didn't tell you, did they?"

He looked at her and smiled. "What? Tell me what?"

"I'm your replacement."

He laughed. "Well, yes, alright. But I'm all better now. I don't need a replacement anymore."

"No, John. Doctor Sawyer hired me to replace you... permanently."

John's eyes snapped wide. He rushed out of his office and ran to the reception hall. "Miss Campbell, where can I find Doctor Sawyer?" he asked, trying hard, really hard, to keep calm.

"Last time I saw her she was in the cafeteria, having breakfast," she hesitated for a moment. "Is everything alright?"

"That's what I'm about to find out. Thank you Rose," he gave her a small smile before making his way to the cafeteria, in the first floor.

Bloody stairs! Why so many of them? Being two weeks inactive certainly had its repercussions. Running, climbing stairs, even walk for little more than half an hour, was like running a marathon. Then there were the chest pains. He hated those so badly. Sherlock had encouraged him to take it slow and increase his strolls progressively, what shocked John at the least. Sherlock was not one to take things slowly, it was always now or too soon with him.

John meandered through the almost empty dining hall before spotting Sarah, in her usual table eating her usual breakfast. He couldn't still quite believe in what was happening. Could it be that he had been fired? And did no one, not one single sorry arse soul bothered to tell him? Worse than that: did Sarah hate him that much? He took one deep breath before approaching her slowly. Maybe it was all a very big and very sad misunderstanding. He gathered himself and sat down in the chair opposite of hers.

"Morning Sarah," he said smiling.

"Doctor Watson," she replied briefly. "How can I assist you this marvellous morning?"

Why so bloody solemn? John arched a brow and leaned forwards, resting his forearms on the table. "Well, I wanted to clarify an obvious mistake," he said in the same clipped tone. "It seems that, during my absence, you hired someone to replace my services."

"That is correct," Sarah said shortly, sipping her coffee.

"I had a chat with Doctor Harper and she told me it was a permanent replacement."

"That is also correct. I fail to understand you're doubt here, Doctor Watson," she said. "Your contract was over by the end of the week you asked me to take care of your flatmate Mr Sherlock Holmes. And since you didn't come to renew it, I couldn't take the risk of proceeding with the surgery's services with one health care professional short."

All of this Shakespearean talk was starting to get on his nerves. "Sarah, I was sick! I couldn't—"

"Oh I don't give a toss about your reasons, Doctor Watson. You knew you had a temporary contract, and you knew it was about to end. Now, I am not going to risk my practice because you decided you wanted to play Batman and Robin all over London. After all, John, if I can recall your words," she chuckled, but the humour was not there, "which I perfectly can, by the way; 'My life will always be about Sherlock'."

"Now, we've talked about this Sarah," he began.

"Yes, we did. And it ended up with you turning your back on us because Mr Big Brains had summoned you to him. You didn't even bother to say sorry. It was just 'Gotta dash, Sherlock needs me'. It took me a while to understand, but now I see it crystal clear. It's like Sherlock is the Sun and you are the Earth. You revolve around him, yearning every night to see its light and brilliance in the morning. And I was your Moon, revolving around you, waiting for the night, waiting for the Sun to set so you could finally notice me. But you know what John? Not anymore. I am tired of waiting. The night is too bloody dark and too bloody cold. I need to find my own Sun. I just hope you're very happy with yours," she got up and walked away from him.

John could swear he heard a sob as she got close to the door. God, she's so right. He just sat there, looking down at his hands. So many feelings. Such a fuss inside his chest. It was like all the feelings in his body decided to organize a get together party and his heart was the host. And when I say all the feelings, I really do say all the feelings. Even pain and hurt and hate were invited. No one forgot to invite the evil witch, this time, eh Sleeping Beauty? Alright, enough with the metaphors. What am I going to do now?

He slowly got up and marched towards the door. John was unemployed now. How was he supposed to pay the rent? No, no. Go home and have a cuppa first. Worry about unemployment later. He retrieved his phone from inside his jacket and dialled Sherlock's number.

"Goodbye, Doctor Watson," Rose Campbell said with a sympathetic smile as he passed by her. "I'm going to miss you."

She reminded him so much of Molly Hooper. "Bye Rose. Maybe I'll call you someday. We could go out and have a drink, eh?"

"Sounds great."

He nodded and turned his back, still waiting for Sherlock to answer his call. When he thought about quitting, the deep tone made its way to his ears. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Hey! Hi, Sherlock, it's me," he started. "Look, are you still at the Yard?"

"Hello, John!" came the cheerful reply. "Why should I be there?"

"You said you were going to meet Dimmock there today. You know, about an hour ago, cab, jam... Well, never mind. Are you still there?"

"Oh, yes and no," Sherlock said. "Sorry I was quite distracted with something here. Why do you ask?"

"Yes and no? What kind of answer is that?"

"Yes, I remember. No, I'm not there anymore."

"Oh, alright then," John murmured.

"Why, John? What's wrong?"

"Do you have to know everything? I'm going home now and I thought that if you were still at the Yard, you could pass by the surgery on your way home and pick me up. But it's okay, I'll just walk. I could use some exercise."

"Why are you coming home, John? What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I get there... maybe. Look, I'll see you in a minute," John said, cutting the call before Sherlock could ask any more questions.

He strolled through the cold street, feeling the ever so smooth kiss of the sun beams on his skin. He would think of something as soon as he saw Sherlock. He was sure of that. Meanwhile, he was just going to worry about getting home.

...

Sherlock deposited the phone on top of the kitchen table and got up to get a new set of gloves. He was in the middle of an experiment when the strident ring filled the quiet flat, and he waited for them to quit. But when the subject had shown himself rather persistent, Sherlock had to pause his tests to silence the device. He couldn't have guessed that it was John. The man always kept his phone in his jacket while at work. When he heard John's voice all the bad humour dissipated, giving way to a whole new feeling that he had not yet catalogued, it was a mix of excitement with hope. It belonged in the Good Feelings class, though, that much he knew.

But something was wrong. John's voice wasn't calm and smooth as it usually is – well, for the untrained ear, sure, but not for Sherlock. There was a pitch of concern there that shouldn't be present. Something was bothering him. Sherlock quickly evaluated the possibilities and thought of at least ten different things that could've been the main reason for John's concern. Seven of those reasons were caused by himself, so statistically, Sherlock could very well be the guilty party. The remaining three were concerning John's health. What if he was feeling ill again? What if the Blood Clot Nightmare had returned? He swallowed down the lump on his throat and turned his attention back to the microscope. Let's wait for John and see.

He was counting the amount of red blood cells in the sample of an anaemic child, when the so familiar steps of Doctor Watson were heard in the floor below. One half of him trying to concentrate on cell number five, the other half trying to eliminate causes of distress.

It wasn't cause number four or seven, and by the way he tripped on the mattress downstairs it wasn't five or nine either. One, two and six were eliminated too by the way he climbed the first three steps. All health possibilities were now eliminated, so Sherlock tried to think fast. What had he done to upset his best friend? Oh God. Was it the cab incident? It can't be. He wouldn't come home just because of that. Maybe the thumb in the kettle was going a bit too far? But he would've told me. No, something is not right, but what is it?

"Hello," John's soft voice sounded, low and distant, like he was lost in his thoughts.

"John," Sherlock greeted in his ever so aloof manner.

Bowing his head to the microscope again, Sherlock was careful to observe John without him noticing he was being observed. The doctor took the kettle (a new one, the other one went straight to the garbage) and filled it with enough water for two cuppas. My John, always thinking of me. After the water boiled, John filled one cup with black coffee and another one with tea, putting the first one in the kitchen table, close enough so Sherlock could reach it, but far enough so it wouldn't compromise the experiments. Sherlock's heart warmed up with the thoughtful gesture. Suddenly he realized that the doctor wasn't mad at him at all. So none of the ten reasons he had predetermined was the right one. What had happened, then? Oh, he hated when he had unanswered questions!

John sat heavily on his chair in the living room, wrapping himself on his favourite blanket. No words were spoken during a long, long, long time. The only sounds in the flat were their breathings, their sips and Sherlock changing the samples on the microscope. The clock on top of the hearth chimed twelve times. Time slid slowly inside 221b. Things had never been so quiet since John came back from the hospital. John had never been so motionless and speechless. Was he sleeping? Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.

"John?"

The doctor didn't move. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm hungry," Sherlock lied. Well, he didn't lie entirely. He was feeling kind of hungry. He just wanted to make sure John was paying attention.

"Need to go to Tesco's. Any special requests?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a sigh. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"I meant food, Sherlock. Any special requests concerning your lunch?"

"I trust you. Do whatever you please," came the surprisingly soft reply.

Sherlock took his gloves off and tossed them to the bin. John was already at the door when he turned around. It was like he wanted to say something, but the words were not forming. Sherlock smiled, trying to encourage his friend to just spit it out, but the only thing John said was a quick "I'll be back in a jiff. Hold on and try not to eat any dead things, alright?" and then he was gone.

Nicely done, Sherlock. You wanted to get closer and get him to talk, and instead to pushed him away! He growled under his breath and got up to fetch his violin. He needed noise.

John was human. Humans talk about so called feelings, don't they? Why was John breaking that rule? Well, Sherlock didn't feel that need, of course. To him, revealing sentimentalisms was completely ludicrous. What's the point? Think like John. Think like he would.

"Impossible," he said as he started to run the bow through the strings. "I can't think like him, because his mind is completely alien to my parameters. If only I could know him better."

The tune filling the flat was the same Sherlock had played when John was sick. He called it John's Theme, for some reason. It had nothing to do with the good doctor, and yet every time he played it (always when John was either away or asleep, of course) it reminded him of him.

He remembered the cab incident earlier that morning. Sherlock had woken up with a very good mood. His intuition screamed loud and clear that today was going to be a very good day. So he made plans to escort John to work under a phoney excuse about meeting the young DI Dimmock. Of course John would never suspect. They shared cabs all the time, but today was no normal day. Everything was going well until his sharp, trained eye caught that tiny, little, almost unnoticeable trace of strawberry jam in the corner of John's lips. He wondered if he should tell or not, and what happened next is no news. If it weren't for the cabbie, he was almost 73% sure they would have kissed right there.

As promised, John returned soon after, loads of bags on each hand. Sherlock stopped playing as soon as he heard the door downstairs and pondered about helping him with the shopping, but he quickly bushed that away. It would be extremely out of character for him, yet again, so was caring and wiping away traces of jam and... looking at John the way he was looking now and... wanting to hold him and... kiss him...

The delicious scent of food quickly took over the flat. John turned on his Chef Mode and was rushing around preparing Sherlock's meal. The dark crimson apron was hanging loose on John's neck and Sherlock made amends to knot it before it caught on fire.

"What are you doing?" the doctor said standing still with his hand on the frying pan. "I'm trying to cook here."

"Did you know that 87% of the domestic accidents that occur in the kitchen are caused by stupid little mistakes? For an instance, your apron hanging loose could get caught on the stove and set on fire, because you were too lazy to knot it up," Sherlock stated as his long fingers worked on the straps around John's waist. "I can't take the risk of you being hospitalized again. It would be harder to get away this time. Miss Banks would probably hire a permanent watch-guard to keep you sealed inside."

"That wouldn't stop you, though," John pointed out, allowing himself a smile.

"True indeed," Sherlock stepped back and watched as John returned to work on their meals.

Half an hour later, both of them were sitting down with a dish of pure deliciousness in front of their noses. And, for Sherlock's surprise, he was the only one actually enjoying the food.

"How's your... whatever this is?" Sherlock tried.

"Well, you know the thing you're eating and the taste it has?" John asked.

"Yes, obviously," it's delicious, he added to himself.

"Yes, well, it tastes exactly like that."

Sherlock scowled. "You're delightfully cheery today, aren't you John? A true ray of sunshine."

"Sunshine..." John echoed in a murmur, glancing at Sherlock's eyes. Then he shook his head and looked down at his untouched plate. "Oh dammit."

"What's going on, John?" Sherlock asked, unable to contain himself any more. "Why are you acting like that? Why did you come early from the surgery? What the hell is happening, man?"

John sighed and rested his forehead on his palm, still not meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"I was sacked," he said. "Sarah fired me and she didn't even tell me! I knew nothing until I got there and Saw Mrs Hudson's niece on my chair doing my job."

"Oh," was all Sherlock was able to say.

He was radiant inside. Now John was free for him! He was available for Sherlock's needs and no longer had the responsibility of taking care of other people. Oh it was indeed a very good day, with very good news!

But Sherlock's face fell as soon as he met John's eyes. His friend was hurt and it wasn't just because of the job thing. He made an effort to be supportive.

"Why would she do something like that?" he said, although he could fathom the reason.

"Well, she fired me because I have a Sun," John said sadly.

Sherlock's chest clenched. What? No, John wouldn't hide that from me, would he? He's so transparent at times. I would've figure it out, for sure!

"How come you have a son? John, what are you talking about?"

"According to her, my life revolves around my Sun, and he blinds me of everything else. And she's right. God she's so bloody right!" he said hiding his face in his hands.

Sherlock didn't know if he was to be hurt or confused or curious or all of the above. "May I ask when that phenomenon happened? And... well, who the mother is? I mean, do I know her?"

"What?" John lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's and frowned deeply. "Mother of who?"

"Your son! What are we talking about here, John?" Sherlock snapped.

John seemed puzzled at first, but realization soon caught up with him.

"Not son as in offspring, Sherlock. I meant Sun, as in the Solar System, you know, your lifetime enemy," John clarified.

Sherlock could feel himself relax. "One of my lifetime enemies. Don't forget Mycroft and Moriarty."

"Of course not. How could I?" John smiled and got up.

"You didn't eat, John."

"I am aware."

"You need to eat. You need your strengths to recover," Sherlock insisted. "You're still too weak."

"Look at who's playing Daddy now," John said. He got up and placed his plate inside the microwave. "I'll eat it later, Sherlock. I've lost my appetite."

No words were exchanged for the rest of the afternoon. John just sat there, looking at the flames burning in the fireplace, wrapped in his warm blanket. Sherlock could almost hear him think, but he didn't complaint. Apparently, people needed time off sometimes, and although Sherlock could not understand it, he respected it. For John.

Instead he spent the day experimenting and updating his website. He even wrote a summary of the Gonzaga's case so John could write about it in his blog. The night fell slowly, bringing dark and cold with it. Sherlock was fussing around the Black Folder when John finally got up, only to take a sit by the writing desk and logging on his laptop.

"Thanks for the notes, by the way," he said softly.

Sherlock pretended not to hear, watching as John started typing in that so peculiar manner of his. His phone chimed and, for a change, he decided to ignore that too. One word swimming around his head as he got through the files for the millionth time: Hologram. He desperately wanted to find Moriarty, but he knew better. He knew Mycroft wouldn't make this easy for him either, and he knew Moriarty would be found when His Excellence decided so. What fun was the game if they skipped the foreplay?

The problem is that now, dear Jim, I don't want to play. Now I just want to find you so I can put a bullet through that obnoxious head of yours. His thoughts drifted away with a second chime of his cell phone and again, Sherlock ignored it.

"I need to use your laptop," he said.

John just kept on typing. "Will it take long?"

"No, just a quick research."

The doctor finished the phrase and got up so Sherlock could take his place. My, that was easy. As he sat down and logged on his e-mail account, he heard John mutter to himself, so softly it was hard for him to figure out was being said. The words came out muffled from the kitchen. Sherlock propped his head up and tried to capture a glimpse of the moaning doctor.

"Oh God," John cried again. "I'm dying," he said. "I am bloody dying!"

At the sound of this Sherlock got up and strolled quickly to meet his friend in the kitchen.

"John, what is it? Are you feeling ill again?"

John had his eyes firmly closed, and he was breathing hard. "I lost my job," the weakness in his voice made Sherlock stiffen.

"I fail to see the connection between the two things, John."

The army doctor shook his head. "Well, think about it. No job, no money. No money, no rent. No rent, homeless. Homeless, sickness. Sickness, death," John said. "I. Am. Dying."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Who would've thought that John Watson could be such a drama queen at times? It was only a job. He would be fine, besides Sherlock would make sure that nothing would hurt him. He thought that maybe he should say that to John, put his mind at rest, but he was only good with words when it came to dead people, or stolen goods, or anything that was not this, whatever this was. Instead he landed his hands on John's shoulders and conducted him back to his place on the desk and patted him awkwardly.

"I am going to retire to my quarters. Please feel free to call me if you find yourself in need," Sherlock said.

John gazed at him with a quirked eyebrow. "You people have to stop talking fancy when I'm around. That shit is seriously getting on my nerves."

"Do forgive me John," Sherlock said. "Disturbing you was the least of my purposes."

"Oh, for God's..." John trailed off and waved a hand to Sherlock as if to say 'Yes, just go the bloody hell away and let me be'.

Sherlock just nodded and made way to his room, leaving the door just half closed, so he could hear the sounds of John from the sitting room. The sounds of life. He changed to his pyjamas and laid down in bed, alert to everything.

He started to pay attention to the scents around him. Freshly laundered bedding, his own cologne, the scent of the newspaper by the bedside table and the cold coffee from that same morning just besides it. Then he widened the ray of inspection. He could still spot the smell of the delicious meal John had cooked all those hours ago, the scent of old books, the scent of John and the surprising scent of the resin he applied to his bow before playing the violin. There was also a vague smell from a chemical compose he used to do one of his experiments, that afternoon. And then there was the outside life. The unpleasant trail of petrol mixed with a whole fist full of things Sherlock didn't even want to imagine.

Letting his nose rest for a bit, he decided to give his ears a go. The first thing that he captured was the ever so familiar sound of his own breathing, then the slight creek of the springs in his bed. Again he widened the area of research, seeking for new sounds. John typing, John breathing, John shifting his feet under the desk, the clock on the mantel piece ticking away slowly and steady. Oh, John was sighing. He was frustrated with something.

Sherlock had to recognize that his best friend wasn't having a good day. But what could he do? An idea crossed his mind but he quickly pushed it away.

Sobbing.

Had he heard right?

Yes, it was most definitely sobbing.

God, John was crying? Impossible. John was a soldier. Possibly the strongest man he ever met.

Sherlock got up from bed and softly walked back into the sitting room. Moving like a ghost, he observed the scenery around him before leaning quietly against the kitchen doorframe. John was still sitting there, his laptop being the only source of light in the room. The blonde took one hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What am I going to do, Sherlock?" John muttered as got up and walked to the window, looking up at the sky.

The detective didn't answer. It was obvious that John was still oblivious to his presence, so he knew that the words weren't for him. Sherlock started to walk towards John. His's back were turned to him, eyes still fixed in the dark grey infinity, limp arms resting on both sides of his torso. Sherlock ventured resting one hand between his shoulder blades.

"Bloody hell! You gave me a fright!" John huffed, leading a hand to his chest. "I don't like it when you do that, Holmes."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, giving him a small smile. He noticed John was wiping away something from his cheeks. Tears maybe? What could be upsetting him so much? "Do you want to talk?" he offered. This is what friends do, right? They talk about problems and stuff. Trying to be human for John was harder than he thought it would be. Was there a protocol? A manual for 'How to be a friend' or something like that?

John didn't turn. Instead he just snorted and bowed his head down, looking at his hands. Sherlock gazed at his exposed neck and held himself so he wouldn't press his lips on John's warm, tanned skin.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock inquired.

"Nothing at all," said John. "It's going to snow. I can smell it in the air," he added in an attempt to divert the conversation.

Sherlock sighed. You can't smell snow, John. Don't be silly. Instead of correcting John, he decided not to drop the former issue. He was going to know what was wrong with his best friend.

"John, I might not be an expert on the emotional field, but it doesn't take much to deduce that you are upset. It's been buggering me all day, so I'm trying to behave like a good friend, although I must confess I have no idea what I am doing. I am trying here—"

"Don't. Just... don't, Sherlock," John's voice was barely above a whisper. "You wouldn't understand, and I know better than too ask that from you."

"But I want to understand John. Please help me understand," Sherlock said desperately turning the smaller man to him.

John sighed. "I wish I could translate it to words. But it's just so much. It's such a heaviness in my chest, Sherlock. I hardly recognize myself anymore. In this case, words won't cover feelings."

So Sherlock wasn't the only one having trouble with that feelings stuff. "Then show me how you feel," he said brushing one cold finger from John's temple to his jaw line. Friends could do stuff like that couldn't they? Or was there a rule that forbade touching and caressing a best friend in need? Anyway, Sherlock didn't have the time to think about it.

John's left hand went up to the nape of Sherlock's neck and his warm fingers stroked his soft, dark curls. Sherlock's eyes widened but he tipped his head towards the comfort of John's touch. And then he was being led down, ever so softly, by that strong, warm hand that belonged to his strong, warm John. Their eyes locked in each other as the space between them was wearing thin. John rested Sherlock's forehead on his own and closed his eyes.

"Don't let me do this, Sherlock," he pleaded, breathing deeply.

"John..."

"Please—"

"John," Sherlock said firmly, cupping John's cheek. "Look at me," he asked. John obeyed and opened his dark silvery eyes to meet Sherlock's. "My John..."

Sherlock's blood rushed, boiling in his veins as he felt the soft contact of John's lips on his. Smooth and warm and perfect. He let out a huff of air and wrapped his long arm around John's waist in a half embrace. Sherlock heard him whimper and wondered if he had done something wrong. And then was when the kiss became deeper. John pulled him down, closing his eyes to savour it better. Sherlock did the same, asking himself what was the point of kissing with your eyes closed, but he soon found out.

John's tongue grazed against his plump lips, asking permission to explore. The feeling was fantastic. When Sherlock parted his lips, he felt the hunger on John's kiss grow more and more as his tongue brushed against his own, tasting Sherlock as if his life depended on it. Then he recoiled and let Sherlock copy, knowing that the detective was a fast learner and one who did not hesitate on experimenting.

Sherlock gladly took the invitation and prepared to kill the so tormenting curiosity that has been building inside him for the past several months. John tasted of mint toothpaste and if he concentrated hard enough he could savour the light flavour of orange tea and strawberry jam. Summing it up in one word, John tasted like John, and it was a thousand times better that what Sherlock had imagined. He let his tongue lick John's lower lip, biting it smoothly. Another moan filled the air, and the tension grew thicker by the second.

Sherlock led John backwards, until his back was leaning against the windowsill, never pulling their lips apart. He allowed himself to press against John's length, not caring if his obvious arousal was poking on his friend's tummy. The height difference was pretty considerable, now that he was literally bending over John.

And there it was. The need to breathe became as intense as their need for each other, and finally (yet unfortunately) they had to part.

Panting somewhat severely, Sherlock was able to hear a "God almighty" breath from John, and he looked intently at his flushed features. He wanted to get a glimpse of John's eyes; he wanted to see those big emotional mirrors. But no. John's eyes were clenched as if he was afraid to open them to find out it was a dream. He brushed away John's hair and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Feeling better?" he asked, surprised of how husky his voice sounded.

"Yes, I'm feeling… feeling. Fine, I'm feeling fine. Great, actually," the way he was stammering made Sherlock chuckle. "What exactly happened here?"

"Do you want me to tell you or would you prefer a practical example?" Sherlock asked smirking.

"I learn faster with practical exercises," John said tilting his head back to make way to Sherlock's lips.

And so they kissed again. Not hungrily this time, but soft and slowly, just enjoying the bliss and the company of one another. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John's sweet and relaxed features. He looked beautiful and peaceful in the dim light. A slight movement caught his eye and he looked towards it, past John and the thin glass of the window. His eyes widened and he pulled away. John moaned in protest.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The detective smiled and caressed his face. "Look, John," he motioned towards the window. His grin similar to a child's in the Christmas morning. "It's snowing."

John laughed and turned his back to Sherlock, careful to keep their bodies close to each other, never wanting to break the contact between them. Sherlock laced his hands around John's middle and rested his head on his good shoulder.

"Well, look at that. Was I right, or was I right?"

"You can't smell snow John. It was just a lucky shot, or a very good weather report from Google," Sherlock said calmly, containing the smile that was forming on his lips.

John didn't say anything else. He just involved his arms on Sherlock's and tipped his head to the side. They stood like that for God knows how long. Each of them refusing to move with the fear of breaking that magic link that was binding them together.

And in that moment Sherlock understood what it meant to have a Sun, for he had found his own. And he was sure of one thing: he was never going to let him go.

A/N: Hullo my lovely readers. God I love you all so berry much! I try to answer to your reviews, but I've been busy working on a special gift for you.

It's taking me a long time, though... and I'm wondering if I should write some porn or not. As I said to my dear Chel (love you hun :D) I need to see porn between these two. It's seriously getting on my nerves. So i wanted your opinion... I must confess I'm not that experienced on writing about the matter, so it would be a true challenge (I love those, there's always something to look forward to... wait, what?)

On the present chapter... YAY! Finally! No, seriously, the lads were so stubborn! But now there you have it. Let me know what you think of it in your review...which I love and appreciate.

And don't stop faving, and alerting... and I'm talking a lot again, aren't I?

Next: Christmas Special ...is going to be HUGE! As a Christmas present for you lot!

*Bloo*